


No Vacancy

by brutumfulmen



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Consent Issues, Falling In Love, Incubus/Succubus Crowley (Good Omens), Loss of Virginity, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Priest Aziraphale (Good Omens), Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26304667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brutumfulmen/pseuds/brutumfulmen
Summary: Per the church’s orders a reluctant Aziraphale is sent to London for a month. And, while it is nice to be home, he has been put up in a place that somehow gives off the air he is not entirely welcome.Or, perhaps it welcomes him far too much.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 113





	No Vacancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t usually write notes, but I will say that the concept of an incubus at work is thoroughly explored here, with all its implications.
> 
> Enjoy.

Aziraphale looked up from his shoes at the sound of several cars honking.

The golden cross around his neck weighed heavy as he stood across the street from a tall, luxurious building situated on one of London’s finest blocks. According to the flashing sign in a slowly moving bus’s windows it was only half past two in the afternoon, but dark grey skies and the aftereffects of a ten hour flight gave a far different impression to Aziraphale.

Notably, the way exhaustion sagged his shoulders far more than his luggage did.

 _‘Accommodations for the duration of your stay have been provided at Mayfair block...’_ the paper in hand had read before the ink melted and blended into a congealed stain in his grip when a fat raindrop landed. He stuffed the mangled scrap into his coat pocket and sighed, wiping his glasses off as more rain gathered on their lenses. Aziraphale shifted his satchel higher upon his shoulder, adjusted the suitcase straining his other hand to rest its weight atop his shoe instead of the rain-pattered sidewalk. While not unusual to be set up for mission work in occasionally well-renowned accommodations, a sense of discomfort pushed the boundaries of Aziraphale’s chest, bubbled up his throat only to meet its damming at the starched white collar around his neck.

On impulse he tugged at it, chided himself for the nervous habit, before the light turned green and he crossed the street with the other pedestrians of busy Mayfair, London. Another one of millions.

The building was hardly ominous, Aziraphale reasoned as he turned and picked a brisk pace to reach the enormous glass doors which opened automatically as he approached. Always a touch unnerving given the parish back home remained quite traditional in its architecture, among other reasons. Despite the gloomy, rainy weather of London there was nothing for him to be concerned with in terms of safety or quality. His work has taken him to all sorts of terrible, broken places in this enormous world that needed more than kind words, that desperately needed action from someone who cared.

It would be too late on the West Coast to ring Gabriel and express his uncertainty about all this, anyways.

Aziraphale swiped the water from his curling hair, felt stray droplets slide cold and quick down the back of his neck, shivering in response. It was good to be back home in England for something easier than all that, he reluctantly confessed to no one but himself when he punched in the ‘up’ button at the sparkling lift, however brief his stay might turn out.

A month he’d been told. Although, after his rather sombre conversation with Gabriel before he was handed an itinerary and directions to the university, he would not be surprised if they told him to stay away longer. Aziraphale flexed his cramped fingers around the leather handles of his suitcase, his cross vibrated in time with the force of his pounding heartbeat when the lift dinged and its doors opened. Taking up residency in a flat in his hometown would hardly spell the end of him.

He stepped inside and pressed the button for the top floor. It is only a month.

Nothing he cannot handle.

Waiting for Aziraphale the moment he stepped off the lift was a young, thin man dressed in an ill-fitting suit just as Gabriel had told him would be. Not a clerical member of the church, he noticed upon approach the absence of a collar, but considering it if he was to be Aziraphale’s sponsor while here.

A test, if there was any, to keep his opinions to himself.

“Afternoon,” Aziraphale greeted, clearing his throat of the hallway’s dry air. “You must be Newton?”

Newton pushed off the opposite wall and dusted off his trousers with a nervous smile at Aziraphale’s approach, shaking the offered hand profusely with all the grace of a fellow Englishman ignoring how dreadfully chilled his skin must feel. “Father Fell, a pleasure to meet you in person. And please, call me Newt, only my mother calls me Newton.”

Aziraphale smiled, forcing it to appear genuine and not as haggard as he felt. “Pleasure is mine, my boy. I do hope I have not kept you waiting too long.”

Newt adjusted his glasses as he took the suitcase from Aziraphale’s person and gestured towards the large, dark door. Which, Aziraphale noticed, as Newt’s shaking hand hovered the key before the lock, had the strangest serpentine handle ever seen, the engraved eyes gave the illusion of watching him. Impressive craftsmanship, if odd.

“Hardly a burden, Father,” Newt replied hastily, standing a tad too close for Aziraphale’s comfort. “I know it’s summer in America right now, London rain can take some time getting back used to no matter how short the time away.”

“All good things are easy to pick back up, London is surely no different,” Aziraphale murmured, the key unlocking the door with a loud click and over his shoulder Newt reached to push the door open. Aziraphale stepped inside to an immediate chill down his back from a lack of heating if the unlit, cold stone floors and walls were anything to go by. Behind him the door shut and he heard Newt set down his suitcase before the flick of a switch and the blinds lifted on his right to reveal enormous windows and London’s bright grey skies.

He’s never been in a place so… modern. And grey. And square. Whoever owned the flat must be quite wealthy, or at the very cutting edge of what was considered design nowadays, so far from the old, creaking wood of a parish. A hand came up to tug on his collar, before he wrung it into the cassock’s dark fabric.

“Everything came furnished and up to date according to the woman I got the place from,” Newt’s voice came from behind him, somewhere in another room which Aziraphale guessed to be the kitchen. He followed after, greeted by the sight of Newt leaning away from a very expensive looking toaster on a long marble counter as he plugged it in, the appliance next to a neat line of every possible kitchen gadget one could never need in a lifetime of cooking. All in stainless steel, including the refrigerator and range, Aziraphale noted with a displeased eye.

Modern indeed.

When nothing disastrous happened upon the insert of the last kitchen gadget’s plug, Newt straightened up and smiled to which Aziraphale gave an uncertain one back. “Apparently it’s not been rented out in a while. So I just need to make sure everything powers on, is all she recommended.”

The young man grimaced at the prospect and Aziraphale excused himself before either of them might say anything too terribly awkward. Charming young man, but Aziraphale could not say the same about himself, especially if he wanted to start this trip on the right foot.

Across from the kitchen a small sun room housed countless and tall, verdant plants, their leaves lush and well-kept. A fingertip gently touched one, felt the smooth leaf bounce back without hesitation, eager to return to its neighbours. Quite hardy plants, their keeper no doubt came around the place often to ensure they stayed healthy. A watering can and plant mister were nestled on a window sill next to several smaller plants, reservoirs dry as a bone.

Aziraphale picked up the plant mister and sighed. He best read up on plant care, then.

Stepping out with the plant mister in hand, Aziraphale looked around for a washroom and stopped. At the very end of the hallway stood a large, winged statue, illuminated by a skylight’s open glow. From across the distance he made out what appeared to be two figures locked in combat, their expressions caught eternal in the marble etching.

Curious, he took a step forward.

“—Looks like I got everything powered on without a hassle. Water’s already been turned on for the washroom and shower. Might need to run a few times to clear the pipes though,” Newt’s voice rounded the corner and jolted Aziraphale out of his stride.

“Oh that’s not a problem,” Aziraphale said as he turned, a smile on his face, hands worrying the plant mister in his grip. “I cannot thank you enough for your help, my dear boy. This is a wonderful place you acquired for my stay.”

Newt smiled and adjusted his glasses which Aziraphale refrained from mirroring, fully conscious of how they felt on his nose. “Happy to help, Father. I’ll be out of town most of the week before classes start with a, a friend but just give me a ring if you need anything.”

After Aziraphale saw Newt out the door, he settled his belongings in what must be the master bedroom, blinking at its stark white walls and massive floor length mirror directly across from a king size bed layered with black silken linens. Shaking off any nonplussed thoughts, Aziraphale unpacked his personal clothing with care, hanging his coat and cassocks in the large, empty closet. He leaned his umbrella in the corner, threw a scarf over the door handle, and tugged closed the curtains to dim the bright light spilling across the bed’s covers. A spare pair of glasses and a few books on his nightstand eased the sterile room somewhat, though nothing would help with its blank walls. There was far too much space in this flat for one person, Aziraphale considered, wondering who it might belong to as he tugged off the collar and rubbed a hand over the indents left behind in his soft neck, before settling it on the wide curve of his waist.

If he avoided looking at himself in the mirror as he quickly undressed, at least no one was ever around to know.

Aziraphale stepped out in his comfortable clothing and a pair of old slippers to see it was late in the afternoon now, the sky still bright but weakening by the minute. Tomorrow he was expected in the office to go over the semester’s planned coursework he would be taking over, today was his to do with as he saw fit.

So, Aziraphale explored.

Although not particularly nosy by nature, it would be inappropriate of him to not learn the place he would be living for the next month or so, especially given the host was so gracious to offer their residence to the church on such short notice. Best he knew how to take care of it all, especially those plants.

He’ll need to find where he placed the plant mister.

It’s empty, can be the only conclusion Aziraphale would be able to provide anyone asking how he liked the place. Clean, well-kept and luxurious, yes. But terribly empty.

The sterile, ultra-modern kitchen with its contraptions and appliances Aziraphale will never understand beckoned him when tea time rolled around, and he spent a good twenty minutes trying to figure out how to work the electric kettle before giving up. But he found a sparkling clean tea kettle which he settled over a coil. The sitting room was sparse, with blank walls straddling the massive floor to ceiling height windows that bathed the room in cool light. It was spacious enough for a few bookshelves, all with plenty of room for books. Aziraphale touched the concrete, let his fingers inch towards the cold glass as raindrops raced in and out of his vision, imagined the room warmed by rich-wooden shelves and a coffee table piled high, each filled with all his favourites and some that he’s yet to read.

Those notions were not for men of the cloth, however. The dreams Aziraphale once kept close were up long ago nestled between the pages of his collection safe in a nearly abandoned storage unit, where he found less time nowadays to visit and crack open those dusty crates.

Aziraphale wrapped his thick cardigan tighter around himself, and moved on.

More bedrooms and empty rooms, not even a lamp in them, but an office near the master bedroom contained the most personality of the flat. A large, thin television hung on the far wall and an ornate chair was pushed close to a matching table acting as a desk. There was artwork, all surprisingly well-done, of astronomical mappings along the other walls and hung higher than Aziraphale’s eyesight level as though by someone much taller than him.

While imprudent, he peeked through the desk’s drawers, finding not a scrap of paper nor a loose item outside of the television remote, which he settled on the desk. In the other room, he heard the sound of the air kick in, rustling the flat’s numerous plants not unlike a shiver.

What a strange home.

Outside of the usual, Aziraphale’s first week in London went surprisingly well.

Occasionally he has awoken in the living room too tired to reach the bedroom, glasses removed from his nose and folded atop the coffee table, amidst his empty dinner plate and stacks of books and student papers. The plant mister was nowhere to be found, unfortunately, but he checked the plants daily and gave a measured amount of water he would hope proved enough. None of them have died yet, so hope sprang eternal for him.

It was a relief to be teaching instead of at a parish, although Aziraphale could not have found a more effective way to feel his age. Each time he mentioned a name no less than ten faces stared back at him outright in disinterest as though he’d very well stepped right out of ancient Babylon lamenting the loss of the city’s great ziggurats, or if he’d personally come from Pompeii with stone tablets in hand.

Based on the glances cast about the room when he discussed anything, this probably was not far from their opinions of him.

Still, he loved it.

Rushing to catch the morning commute is a thrill the likes of which he has not known since he lived here in London. Even though it had been considered a mark against him compared to the others who offered their knowledge to the surrounding private colleges, Aziraphale readily admitted that his greatest feat in his life was teaching at various public institutions all these years since his own time in seminary school.

Everyone on the department’s staff has been nothing but kind to Aziraphale so far, but the undercurrent of curiosity as to why he was here remained unspoken. Not for the first time Aziraphale was grateful Gabriel managed to keep it from others as well as he had. Although it was not a religious school, not even a religious department he worked in, the implications would not go over well, or at the very least prove awkward for future interactions. A priest needing to find his faith after a disastrous stint teaching, where his beliefs had not represented the church accordingly did not speak well of him. Yet, Aziraphale could not help but protest what had been so wrong about admitting he did not have all the answers.

Should he have lied to his students about this being the right path to take? Cruel and far more blasphemous to tell potential patrons of the faith this was the one true way when he still wondered himself.

Regardless of intentions, six promising students left behind their interest in the priesthood to pursue different paths directly following his conversation with them. Rumours spread like wildfire through the department and eventually reached the parents, one student being the second son of a very prominent donor family. Once word got back about a blasphemous priest encouraging students to leave…

Aziraphale flipped a page back, realising he had not read a single word thus far.

That had been enough for the council to determine a ‘change of pace’ as necessary for Aziraphale before the parish would allow him back with the others. If he would be allowed back.

After all, doubt was a damning vice to have as a priest.

Aziraphale set down his book and plucked his glasses from his face with a soft breath of defeat. Reading the past few weeks had been impossible due to the upheaval of his life, and now that he had time it was impossible. It was also dreadfully cold in this flat, he found with a frown, sliding out of the bed and donning his house robe in the process. On habit he smoothed back the covers, almost decadent in its comfort, and toed into his slippers before he walked out to look for a thermostat.

The air around him went dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he tried to wet his lips. A rasp of what might be fabric against the concrete walls pulled his attention and he turned to face the long hallway, that statue bathed in moonlight all that greeted him.

For a long moment, Aziraphale stood frozen in the hallway and waited for the noise to return.

“Is…” He paused the question on his tongue, before swallowing _‘anyone there?’_ back down into the clench of his stomach, a hand pulled his house robe tighter around his person in some meagre attempt at modesty. Silence, save for his own steady breathing, met his one word spoken into the dark.

“Right,” he murmured, pressed the digital ‘up’ button twice more on the complicated thermostat for good measure and went back to bed. The nightstand’s light was already off but he might have done that before he rose, his tired mind offered as he slid underneath the numerous folded down covers into silken bliss. The flat was far too quiet and cold for anyone else to be here, and a soft laugh ghosted across the pillow as he closed his eyes.

There’s no need for him to be so ridiculous.

It was terribly bright in here.

Colours flashed before his eyes to the heavy bass music pounding through the place’s speakers until the beams focussed enough to reveal him standing in the centre of somewhere he has never been before but knew him well, if such a concept could be felt. Aziraphale winced, a hand held up to cover one of a thousand lights burning, then paused as the colours changed once more in kaleidoscopic confusion, making him go cross-eyed.

A nightclub.

He was standing in a nightclub of all places, he realised to dawning horror. What bouncer thought it a good idea to let a priest in, let alone one like Aziraphale?

 _I need to find the exit,_ Aziraphale thought to himself as the heavy fabric of his cassock turned oppressively hot on his skin, and turned around.

Countless people surrounded him, dancing and laughing together on the dance floor he’s been stranded upon. Each time he stepped back there was someone close by and pushing, shouting words he failed to make out from the blasting music, now carrying vocals some of the people were trying to sing along to. Craning his neck he could not see over anyone’s heads well enough to determine whether it ended or not, what direction the exit lay in. Somewhere a disk jockey shouted unintelligible words which made the crowd roar and jump as one, sending his centre of gravity lopsided. A shout of surprise died before it left his lips which he touched in surprise, until a passerby knocked into him and sent him stumbling back. 

A pair of strong hands were upon his body, circling his hips and upper back and he stiffened as they wound firm to ease him into the fall that never was, almost like dipping a dance partner. Above the lights beamed down at him, golds and reds spiraling around the dark silhouette of a figure holding him from the floor.

“Steady. No need for anyone to fall today,” the figure’s low voice said, laughing as if he’d told an obvious joke, the sound sending a peculiar shudder down the rungs of Aziraphale’s spine as he was righted on numb legs, his oxfords not suited for the slick dance floor. There was no time to turn, he moved in slow motion compared to the figure coiling around like a snake to loom before him as the strobe lights flickered over the sharp lines of a man’s pale, handsome face, carved him visible to Aziraphale’s eyes.

 _Stunning,_ Aziraphale’s mind supplied loud enough to tighten in his throat, flush his face. A smile stretched the man’s mouth, his features sliced into geometric shapes by the lights flashing in various blues and purples now.

“Well aren’t you a sight yourself. Care for a drink?”

 _I beg your pardon_ and _thank you but absolutely not_ and _what on earth compelled you to race across the dance floor for me_ tangled inside Aziraphale’s head as he stared dumbly up at the man. The notion of a stranger approaching him like so was unheard of, laughable really. It never happened and after another moment of hesitation he decided to start his reply by scolding the man for such brazen talk, if anything to defend his unbecoming blush. Aziraphale’s potential responses narrowed to the tip of his tongue, and he opened his mouth to quite thoroughly send the man on his way.

Nothing came out but air.

Aziraphale blinked, the man didn’t move as he watched, slightly amused, when Aziraphale tried again. Still nothing. His hands hung limp instead of pushing the other away, righting his dark robes. Another patron came close to shoulder-checking Aziraphale until the man caged with a long arm, maneouvering them both towards the bar, now in Aziraphale’s sight. His legs moved without input, the music deafening but not painful despite its increasing volume, he blinked and the lights became more bearable, almost softened as they walked together.

_What is going on?_

He tried to speak again, the words tangible on his tongue but locked behind stubborn teeth. No one would hear him even if he shouted, a voice from somewhere told him, and his mouth remained shut, believing it. Based on the man’s unchanged attitude this was not a problem. Nothing was, if by the smile he cast down at Aziraphale, still caught within the man’s orbit then deposited at the bar.

“Imagine that makes you turn down a drink more than you want to,” he tipped his chin down towards the white collar at Aziraphale’s throat, and finally his hands seemed to work as one came up to touch it. Or cover it. A harsh laugh moved the man’s broad, flat chest, his long, dark-clothed limbs crossing as he slouched into a stool at the bar. Long fingers, sharpened by black nails that according to Aziraphale was a normal aspect for a human to possess, gestured for Aziraphale to sit in an empty stool that had not been there when he last looked. “That’s what I’m here for, though.”

Unsure how to respond Aziraphale sat down, smoothing his dark robes of invisible dust. A neon orange drink neither of them ordered appeared by the man’s hand, he swirled its contents at Aziraphale’s eye level before he took a sip that turned into the entire glass. Aziraphale watched the long, pale column of the man’s throat work, his hands bunched into the thick fabric of his robes. It was terribly inappropriate of him to sit here and stare at the man who saved him but he could not find the strength to move, behave as a man of his profession should.

“Sure I can’t tempt you? Nothing wrong with the occasional indulgence,” at this the man’s fingertip tapped the glass, sliding on the rim until it sang a low tone Aziraphale somehow heard above all else. “They’ll make whatever you want here.”

 _Who are you,_ it sounded as though it did not come from his mouth, but the man must have heard it as he threw a glance up towards the ceiling, rolling his eyes back towards Aziraphale. A sharp brow cocked as did his mouth, wicked in the way it drew Aziraphale’s eyes, helpless in their interest. Never was Aziraphale one for this behaviour, reined it deep within except now of all places. This was most unbecoming of him and where is the exit again?

“Curious one I see, but no that’s all fine, just fine,” the man continued in the low drawl, setting the empty glass down. For a moment they said nothing and just stared at one another, two strangers in a nightclub writhing and shifting around them. Aziraphale glanced over to the empty glass and saw it filled by another drink, bright blue this time. He wondered after it, found his mouth tinged finely sour and crisp before it dissipated in an instant. That seemed reasonable to have happened. It was unlike the rich wine Aziraphale and his colleagues shared earlier today, and when he glanced down to his hands a wine glass was cradled between them.

“Go on, you wanted it so here it is.” The man’s voice fed into his ear, as though right upon him. He _could_ drink it, Aziraphale considered. No one was around from the church, from work. No one had to know about this lonely, weak moment in the dark with a handsome man staring at him like he mattered.

He raised the glass, stared into its red-black swirl before he set it aside and looked back up to the man and started at the scrutiny. His gaze was exceptionally golden, almost glowing from the ultraviolet lights overhead, and when the man noticed Aziraphale’s attention those eyes flicked down Aziraphale in obvious appraisal. Over his undoubtedly confused face, the white shock of his priesthood, down the wide curve of his waist stopping somewhere at his lap. Then back up to Aziraphale’s eyes with a snap. Aziraphale flinched.

“Don’t sweat it. We don’t need drinks, I can find other ways to loosen you up.”

Something close to an offence-mired blush burned its way across Aziraphale’s face, spilling down his neck, but the man’s sharp grin did not waver, almost predatory in the alternating light and shadow. Aziraphale made to stand, to leave this place with its rude patrons and - flirtations or insults, he was not sure yet - but a hand stopped him, strong fingers curled around his sloped shoulder, sliding down to the soft give of his upper arm in a coaxing vice.

“Leaving so soon?” The man murmured, face all too close, his alarming gold eyes unavoidable, his nose touched to Aziraphale’s in a level of profound intimacy starkly out of place amidst the chaos around them. Under great effort he took in a breath, filling his senses with the faint scent of cinders and expensive alcohol, sending him dizzy. Another hand slithered around his waist, pulled him flush to the tall man’s hard chest, narrow hips jammed against Aziraphale. Aziraphale gasped, body going stiff at the entirely unmistakable feel of the other man’s arousal pressed hard into his lower belly.

_Oh—_

“We can take our time. I will with you, don’t worry.”

Goodness, the mere rasp in his voice made Aziraphale shudder and his knees go weak, damp hands shaking from their place between them on the man’s broad, flat chest. “Get you somewhere quieter. Whatever you’re wanting, I can make it happen.”

Aziraphale shook his head, or thought he did. A hand slithered up to grasp at Aziraphale’s hair, tugging on it to expose the pale of his neck. Above the lights burned molten down at him, then shied away. He needed to leave. His hands gripped the other man’s expensive shirt, pushing away though the man’s hips pinned him. There was a weight to his movements, like he was underwater struggling for the surface, arms flailing, legs kicking without gain. When had he become so aware of his heart beating in his chest? His eyes squeezed shut when the man’s tongue slid along his trembling jaw, terrified at how erotic it felt, how much more he craved.

 _I can’t do_ this, Aziraphale thought over the thrumming in his body. _I need to leave here._

_Now._

The man pulled away, his hands relaxed their grip, caressing trails of fire down Aziraphale’s skin, his robes all too oppressive in their restriction, separation. Aziraphale bit his lip, bruised it from keeping his cry of protest locked away, when had he become like this?

“Not your scene, huh? Nothing about it gets you going at all?” A laugh came from the man’s mouth that sounded more teasing than mockery, but it became lost under the music ever louder in Aziraphale’s ears.

They were at the exit of the nightclub, its red neon like the sun upon his flushed skin, and as the black beckoned him to leave Aziraphale wanted to stay, to know more. Those golden eyes stared down at Aziraphale with no care to the world around them even as everything went crooked.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Aziraphale awoke gasping, helplessly prone on the bed with his face mashed into the silk pillows, his limbs tangled by luxurious sheets turned chains. Distantly rain could be heard pattering softly against the windows.

Out the corner of his eyes a slim shadow darkened the corner near his closet, panic spiking through his body and he tried to turn but each time he thought he was moving it was to no avail. He opened his mouth to scream, yell for help but his voice remained trapped by a reluctance to awaken. There was the telling dampness of tears on his face, soaked into the pillow when suddenly a rush of air brushed around his ears and he jerked. Sleep’s weight lifted from him like a blanket peeling itself away, and he flung the covers off his sweat-soaked skin and sat up. The shadow by his closet, now seen with clear eyes, was little more than his umbrella nestled into the corner’s wall.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale sighed, relieved and rather chiding of his mind’s tricks.

Somewhere in the flat he heard the sound of the radiator clang on, air flowing once more. A hand touched his chest in an unconscious attempt to calm his pounding heart, then paused. He looked down at himself, lifted the covers away.

Several of his buttons were undone, the cold air hitting his neck to prick the skin, and the hem of his nightgown was hiked well past his ankles to twist around his upper thighs, deep imprints left in the wide flesh. With a tug he settled the gown to its proper place and heaved a great sigh, dropped his head down only to wince at a sudden crick throbbing from jaw to collarbone. What a dreadful way to wake up, shame considering the bed felt so comfortable at first. On the other nightstand an alarm clock read quarter past three to Aziraphale’s bleary eyes, its red glow quite similar to the neon exit sign of his dreams.

He shook away the thought.

Friday meant midday classes and he did not need to be awake for a long time. His presence would next be required on Sunday for mass, but still, it was not a pleasant way to wake up, done so rudely in the night.

“Goodness, jet-lag has never felt this terrible before,” he mumbled, rubbed a hand down the side of his damp face, exhaustion weighed upon his eyes and compelling him to surrender. Burrowing back underneath the covers, Aziraphale was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

The rest of Friday’s night went so well Aziraphale felt comfortable enough to dismiss the events of last night as a mere result of the stress of the entire trip, exacerbated by this first week of the semester in full swing. Gabriel called him sometime after breakfast, or very early morning in America to ask after his well-being, and during their chat Aziraphale inevitably found them talking about his situation, unable to suppress the need to ask Gabriel again why.

“Best I could do when the council sent its ruling down,” Gabriel continued from five thousand kilometres away through the tinny-speakered mobile phone Aziraphale despised owning as he poured tea into a flawless cup. Everything in this flat was far too expensive for his own tastes, but he allowed himself the indulgence especially when a tea brand he’s gawked at the pricing over for years was so readily available. “Gives everyone over here time to cool off, the family to reconsider pulling its funding of the parish. You time to, eh...”

Figure out what he really wants, Aziraphale heard in the elder priest’s hesitation. Considering how many of the others found him to be a poor priest overall, it was commendable. He took a sip of tea before replying.

“Of course,” his tongue burned. “How long, if you can recall, did they say I was to remain here?”

Static met him, Gabriel clearly mulling over his next words. Somewhere on the other end of the line he heard the sound of cars honking around Gabriel, the roar of a passing lorry told Aziraphale he was already on the highway and fighting traffic. No doubt he’s on his way to the private college for a meeting.

“Council said at minimum a month,” the persistent click of a turn signal, and Gabriel muttered something to himself Aziraphale did not catch. “Emphasis on minimum, but it’ll depend on how long we can reserve your accommodations and how well you do in the college - er, university? - slot. Your doctorate was a saving grace as the professor suddenly resigned a few weeks back.”

Saving grace, Aziraphale’s mouth twisted at the wording. Gabriel meant nothing by it of course, Aziraphale insisted as they exchanged polite goodbyes and he stepped out of the flat into London’s rainy, busy streets.

It’s only a month, he told himself again as he gave the driver his destination.

Minimum, a voice corrected.

Aziraphale blinked at a menu in his hands, unable to read the items, blurred and messy it all was. Some part of his brain knew he wanted to order tea and a buttered scone when he distantly heard a waitress putting together exactly that. This all seemed reasonable, and so he turned the menu page, absorbed none of it, until movement from outside catching his eye. Rain pattered down on the wide windows, tiny droplets racing one another. It’s been raining a lot in London since his arrival, but not today. Perhaps the weather station got it wrong again. Another blink, he looked around to see himself in a café, the one he went to earlier this week during break between classes. Its exposed wooden architecture curved in to welcome patrons, the kitchen and counter bustling with quiet activity as people sat and drank their coffee, laughed with one another.

At the sound of a chair sliding against stone, he turned back to see a tall figure sit down at his table. Directly across from him was a man Aziraphale is certain he’s seen before. Perhaps on the street? At the university? The menu between his fingers felt as though made of air.

How did he get here again?

“Usually don’t do this twice in a row but felt bad,” the man said as though Aziraphale’s inner monologue was not reeling. “Not my best foot forward at all, although I’m a decent dancer. Trust me I’m not that far out of practice for either.” To Aziraphale the man was exceptionally, almost impossibly handsome for all his sharp angles and long limbs, dressed in well-fitting dark pants and a blood red shirt, the first few buttons undone to highlight a long neck and defined jaw. Short auburn hair effortlessly raked over into a fin that caught silver light from the grey outside and Aziraphale’s attention with profound effectiveness. A thin gold chain peeked out from his shirt whenever he moved, which seemed to be in an ever slight sway. His chin was propped on one hand as he leaned on the small table between them, dark sunglasses concealled the gold glint of eyes Aziraphale knew lived behind him. Somehow. Why would he know that?

None of that mattered, a voice inside him said. He seemed interested in Aziraphale, after all, in a way no one ever was before. Around them he detected the curious, hopeful interest of others in the café, their shameless want of the man across from him. Aziraphale’s heart clenched in his chest, the menu like sandpaper in his grip and painfully aware at once of his inadequacy, the collar no more a shackle until shame burned through him.

“Don’t do that,” the man soothed, dipping his chin to peek over his sunglasses, and Aziraphale cringed at how blatant he must have been in his thoughts. “So this is more your beat, yeah? No secretly getting wild on the weekends for you then, like some of the other priests I’ve met. A nice quiet setting, I like it. This’ll work.” A hand, warmer than Aziraphale expected, covered his own and his fingers twitched in surprise. He’s never held hands before with another, having joined seminary school and sacrificing all it required as a younger man. Not able to miss what you never knew and all, he would tell himself whenever an unbecoming longing struck at the sight of others together, in love. A broad thumb stroked Aziraphale’s skin and jolted him from his reverie, made him shiver in uncertain pleasure.

This was… it all felt so nice.

The man squeezed his hand, the soft timbre of his next words bordering on tempting. “We can do just fine here, you and me.”

 _Who are you?_ Aziraphale asked, the question like a case of déjà vu, and though he heard nothing his mouth thankfully moved if by how the man’s eyes dropped down to watch. They were beautiful in this light, Aziraphale admitted to himself, a pinprick of embarrassment at the thought. What would anyone say if they saw him like this, holding hands and out with a strange man? Nothing good, not for Aziraphale.

“Just a passerby like everyone else in this café, but don’t worry yourself about that. Not while I’m here,” the man continued, his grin white and wide, threatening a plethora of options and not all of them terrible. The hand, sharp with its dark nails, slid up to encircle his wrist, and the man leaned forward across the table between them until their noses touched. There was nothing in Aziraphale that let him flinch, unable to resist how intimate this felt. Gold eyes flicked between his, then the man’s mouth pressed to his cheek, rough, thin lips sliding over to the shell of his ear and— 

Oh, oh goodness.

Blood ran hot through his veins, his knees pressed tightly together underneath his robes, shaking fingers curled in to the damp palm which the man grasped long enough to press to the broad, flat planes of his chest. This is what others felt like, Aziraphale realised on the smother of a moan as the man’s tall form shifted closer, what their bodies would do to his own when held against him.

“You’re doing perfectly,” the man whispered into his ear, a kiss pressed to the lobe that made Aziraphale’s spine tingle and arch. “Look at you, so sensitive to even a simple kiss.”

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut but the man did not laugh, only hissed in apparent approval, running his hands over every wide curve on Aziraphale’s body that his robes concealled. He’s dreamed about moments like this before, fantasised in the weakest depths of his persistent loneliness. Of hands in the dark upon his skin, a confident mouth touched upon his own, along his throat the way this man’s now was, the firm grip on his wrist moved to his waist, squeezing and caressing. During these times it had all felt distant, safe in the way dreams were though he’d awaken aroused beyond measure and deeply ashamed. Even then he’d still known it wasn’t real.

This, this felt real.

He shuddered, hands flexed in an attempt to push but the man twisted his long body and had Aziraphale pinned to the table, legs kicked astride the man’s hips. The waitress came by with their coffee and set it on the window sill, ignored Aziraphale’s wide eyes and frozen form sprawled over the table like this was normal. Lips at his throat beckoned his attention, brushed above a pulse fluttering under delicate, exposed skin. A nip to his soft jaw made Aziraphale gasp, surprised at his body’s own delights.

“Like that, now, nice and easy,” came the man’s voice hissed into the divot of Aziraphale’s flushed neck. His ears rang in alarm, heart pounding with a frightening arousal the more he felt lulled into complacency, limbs relaxing into the man’s capable embrace. “See? I’m not so bad once you get to know me.”

 _From last night._ An urgent hysteria compressed all the air in his chest and Aziraphale bit his lip, a hand gripped the soft meat of his thigh to pull him open in an achingly wanton display to the others around them. _You were at the nightclub._

“Aren’t you clever.” Breath puffed each harsh word damp and furnace hot into Aziraphale’s throat as sharp teeth pressed deeper, heat twisting its way down his shaking limbs. “Trust me, you’re going to end up knowing me pretty damn well.”

Sharp teeth over a rapid pulse, and before Aziraphale could react he bit down—

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open and he might have screamed had his throat not betrayed him in its paralysis. Above him was a dark shape with glowing gold eyes, its impossibly dense weight pinning Aziraphale into the bed, his arms gripped by what felt to be sharp claws, his thighs spread open by the hard lines of the shape’s own legs. A sob rippled through him, his eyes burned with frightened, frantic tears threatening to spill over. Who was this, was it an intruder?

Was he about to die?

A whimper he cannot control broke free, Aziraphale blinked and felt tears slide down his cheeks to stain the pillow.

Gold shifted through his blurring vision, then it all was lifting away, dissipating into the air once more. He lay there screaming without sound, voice stolen by his body’s belief it was still asleep and dreaming. In the long, tense tick of night’s minutes, Aziraphale’s body returned to him with reluctance, until the inner war turned to his favour and his limbs at last twitched to life. The moment his arms could move he flung the covers off himself and crawled back to the headboard, taking stock of his person with shaking hands. His nightgown clung to him, soaked with nervous sweat and unbuttoned to his stomach, the hem hiked to his hips where his undergarments had been twisted and bunched, as if something tried to remove them.

His neck ached, and a part of himself that defied all logic knew why. Fingertips reached up to brush where indents had been left in the soft, vulnerable flesh above his hammering pulse. A hoarse sound shuddered from his throat threatening to become a sob. Hadn’t this all been a dream? Tears burning in the corners of his eyes, Aziraphale yanked his hand away and stumbled out from the bedroom on tired legs praying that nothing followed.

Aziraphale stayed awake, unwilling, unable to sleep until his own eyes confirmed the grey sunlight of London had eaten away through the night’s black and blue.

Sitting on the uncomfortable settee, Aziraphale spent the past few hours alternating his attention between a faithfully refilled cup of tea and a notebook he scrawled every detail he recalled of his dreams and the immediate moments upon waking. Scattered across the coffee table were the rejected attempts at capturing so vivid a dream it still managed to haunt his mind’s eye. The clock struck five and he stared down at his progress with a frown, having filled page after page with clues and feelings, even trying his amateur hand at sketching the man’s face, though out of everything it was what eluded him the most.

Remembering the way his mouth felt on Aziraphale’s neck remained clear, however, as did the rasp of his voice that spoke of temptation beyond measure, that no priest should know. At his neck the faint ache of teeth and tongue resurfaced, his hand twitches in his lap at the urge to touch it.

Aziraphale sighed, brought his pen up to push his glasses higher up his nose.

Nothing he’s written satisfied him, each sketch worse than the next. As he sat there the memories of the man’s handsome face inevitably slipped away on the last dredges of his tea and the morning light, grey and bleak coming in through the windows.

Morning had arrived, and he drank in the relief with tired eyes. Shucking the throw off his shoulders, Aziraphale stood up, set his pen on the notebook, and walked to the washroom.

There were a limited number of hours before night, he best make the most of them.

Approximately thirty minutes later Aziraphale stood at the front door before the wall mirror nestled where the light switches and key hooks were. He took a moment to smooth down the front of his pale overcoat, adjust the white collar atop his black clerical tunic. Flattened with a hand the stubborn curl of his hair to no avail, and frowned back at his tired, pale face. Breakfast for the first time in a long while would be forgone, he’d rather get something at a nearby café but…

Stepping into one might be too much at the moment.

Here in the morning Aziraphale stood safe in waking’s awareness and the liberty over his own limbs it granted, Aziraphale took a breath and looked down the empty hall to the statue. As the skylight beamed down upon it, the top creature - a demon, he learned this morning after a closer inspection - obscured in shadow. Not for the first time, Aziraphale wondered if he was being watched.

“Is,” Aziraphale began, summoning the scarce amount of courage he possessed. “Is this your flat?”

Deafening quiet followed in the wake of his audacity, as though the very walls mocked him for such behaviour. Indeed he felt rather ridiculous but he needed to ask what could be a presence around him, outside of his waking senses’ abilities. There were, he’s _heard_ of situations other priests have encountered, out there in the dark and dim of Earth’s worst places. Of beings that straddled the line between life and death, found people at their most vulnerable and—

“Have I done something to you?” He touched the white collar where it dug into the bite wound on his neck, brought the hand back down to lean on the door handle, its serpent scales cool. By default he’s done something to an ominous presence simply being a priest. This was dangerous, inviting something to him which based on what’s occurred so far had intentions beyond anything he’s able to stop.

Yet nothing terrible has occurred so far, the man, figure, stopped each time all without ripping his throat out or, or.

Aziraphale never has been good at his job, it seemed.

“I’m not here to perform an, ah exorcism, if, if that’s what you think,” Aziraphale took a slow breath before he dissolved into a panic over his fumbling negotiation with what might be a presence committed to prematurely severing his soul’s union with his body. This no longer bordered on surreal but frightening, caught in the waking world as his only protection until he fell asleep once more. Whatever he said might come back to haunt him.

Literally.

Aziraphale inhaled slowly to counter the twist of his stomach, the air drier than it had been a minute ago.

“That’s not the type of priest I am. Rather, I am only here as an interim teacher and then I will be gone. I will leave. You, you will not be bothered ever again, I promise.”

The flat echoed his words along its solemn walls before claiming them into its persistent silence. If the man from his dreams - the very notion sounded odd in his head - were listening, no reaction might be a good sign. Or a bad one, but optimism never hurt.

“Well then,” Aziraphale cleared his throat, shrugging his satchel higher upon his sloped shoulder. How does one not feel ridiculous about this. “Take care, now.”

Aziraphale cast one last look around the flat and its gloomy walls, gripped the serpentine door handle and let the door close securely behind him with a click. Downstairs, out in the pouring rain, he hailed a taxicab to take him to the university’s library.

He had some reading to do.


End file.
